


The Difference Between Four and One

by Crowgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean just doesn't get it, Five Times (sort of), Fluffy, Ghosts, Humor, M/M, Pining (-ish)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 01:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/907099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time it happens, Dean isn’t particularly surprised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Difference Between Four and One

The first time it happens, Dean isn’t particularly surprised. It’s been a long day, he’s had a few beers, and, if he’s being honest with himself, he’s probably not all that into it.

If he were into it, he would’ve been listening to the girl whispering in his ear and paying attention to her hands on his ass and not mentally rerunning an argument he and Castiel had that morning about the relative danger of scoping out potential hauntings. Cas was just too freakin’ _cautious_ : he wanted to check out _everything_ at least nine times before he fucking _did_ anything and it was starting to drive Dean up the wall and-- 

Well. There was that. Or there _wasn’t_ that.

So he does the gentlemanly thing. Or at least, does the thing a guy hoping to get laid the next time he comes through town would do. 

Fingers and tongue seem to work just fine.

* * *

The next time, he’s just getting into it -- literally: a sweet, smooth slide as the girl hums in pleasure -- when the solution to the hunt they’ve been on occurs to him and all the blood rushes back to his brain.

Which is not where he needs it to be.

A chance remark of Sam’s from earlier in the week lines up with something Cas said earlier in the day and--

‘You okay down there?’ The girl cranes her head up and gives him a narrow-eyed look.

He tries for a grin that he knows comes out distracted and fumbles like there’s something wrong with the condom. ‘Uh...yeah, yeah, fine...just...’

‘’Cause I really don’t have all night here.’

And it’s all downhill from there.

* * *

The third time, he’s just drunk enough to let a guy -- a _guy_ \-- pick him up in the bar, because he’s not paying attention.

Okay, maybe he’s not paying attention _on purpose_ but still: not paying attention is not paying attention. It counts.

And the guy buys him a drink and has a sweet smile and dark hair and dark eyes and a white dress shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows and---

He realises just as the guy’s gets Dean’s zipper down: the man looks like Castiel.

And okay, a blowjob’s a blowjob and Dean figures he’s gotten his fair share from guys; probably given, too, if he’s being honest. But once this _particular_ guy’s physical similarity to Cas pops into his head, it won’t fucking _leave_. And he wants it to leave ‘cause, hey, free, clean, emotionally uninvolved sex right here for the taking.

But he’s out of the moment and thinking about Cas instead of the guy in front of him.

Something else -- something Dean’s sure he _did_ want present -- leaves instead. The guy’s a little confused, and Dean’s so distracted he can barely keep his reputation for good manners by staggering his way through a third-rate handjob.

* * *

‘Okay, Cas, what the hell’ve you done?’

Castiel glances up from the book he’s reading and shakes his head. ‘I have done nothing, Dean.’

‘Bullshit.’ Dean slams the motel room door, making the faded Paint by Numbers picture of cows in a field hanging on the wall shake. He throws his jacket on the table next to Cas and scowls at him.

Castiel shakes his head, closing the book on his finger. ‘I do not understand.’

‘You’ve...fucked with my head.’ Dean waves a hand at his temple. ‘Done -- something to my brain.’

‘That assumes he could find it,’ Sam puts in cheerfully from the bed.

Dean flips him off without bothering to turn around.

Castiel shakes his head again, and Dean feels like he’s being _forced_ into noticing the physical similarities between Cas and the man in the bar: same hair -- except Castiel’s is a little longer and shaggy at the edges; same eyes -- but Castiel’s are dark blue, almost black in the light from the dingy motel bulbs; same fucking shirt -- except Cas would never sit around with the sleeves rolled up. It’s taken the brothers two months to convince him that not all humans wear all their clothes all the time, and it’s okay if the trench coat comes _off_ every now and then.

Even now, the trench and suit jacket are neatly folded over the back of his chair, and Cas is sitting against them, spine so straight you could practically use him as a friggin’ ruler. He’s so _neat_ it makes Dean want to scream -- or at least mess up his hair and steal his tie.

And don’t even get Dean _started_ on the differences between the mouth he’d had so promisingly around his dick forty minutes ago and Castiel’s, which he knows for a fact barely takes in food, let alone anything else so Cas would probably be shit in bed and oh, sweet Christ, oh, shit, his brain just went there and how the _hell_ is he going to get it back?

Because now he _knows_ he’s gaping at Cas like an idiot because all he can think of is: what would that narrow mouth _taste_ like? what would it _feel_ like? Castiel’s fingertips are warm, he knows that, and he can almost feel the touch against his skin, that surety of touch brushing over--

‘I do not understand, Dean. Have I done something wrong?’

‘I just...I...don’t fuck with me, okay, Cas? It’s not...it’s not fair.’ 

With that resounding blow struck for sexual freedom, Dean stomps into the bathroom and takes the coldest shower on his personal record.

* * *

The fourth time, Dean is trying. He is _seriously_ trying.

A chick, not a guy. 

Blonde, not dark. 

Tall -- taller than he is, for fuck’s sake! 

And a dancer -- a goddamned exotic dancer -- how much further should he have to freaking well go to get dark hair and blue eyes and thin hands out of his fucking head!

‘Honey...you’re sweet and all but...seriously?’ The girl pulls back a little.

Dean stifles a groan and wants to pound his head against the wall. 

She’s _gorgeous_ \-- she’s unattached -- she’s interested: hell, _she_ picked _him_ up! What the hell more is he supposed to want?

‘I’m...I’m sorry,’ he mutters, glad that the room’s dark enough that she won’t see the flush on his cheeks. ‘Fuck...I...Jesus, I’m sorry.’

She squeezes his shoulder. ‘Hey, it happens.’ She sounds philosophical, but he can’t say it makes him feel a lot better.

* * *

Dean watches Cas like a hawk for the next week. If Cas has snuck into his head somehow, then by God, Dean is gonna figure out how to get him the fuck back _out_ again. He can’t have smokin’ hot dancers slipping through his fingers like that!

But he doesn’t see anything.

Cas is just...Cas. He looks the same, sounds the same, acts the same. He looks confused at Dean’s jokes, points out the bad logic in their guesswork, tries not to give himself away as someone who hasn’t been on Earth all that long. 

Dean can’t see or hear one damn thing different in the suit, the coat, the eyes, the hair, the hands, the voice--

Cas is... just what he’s always been.

It takes Dean another week to realise that maybe, just maybe, he’s looking in the wrong direction. Introspection has never been his strong suit -- he’s not really sure it’s a suit he’s even _got_ in the whole damned pack of cards! -- but watching Cas like a murder suspect clearly isn’t getting him anything.

And it takes another few days after that for him to realise that it isn’t just Castiel who knows all about him -- he’s learned a hell of a lot about Cas. And it isn’t little shit like knowing what to put in the first cup of coffee or what to pick up for dinner -- well, it _is_ that but there’s other stuff, too. He knows how the corners of Cas’ mouth tighten when he’s getting angry; he knows the unfocused look in his eyes when Dean interrupts him in the middle of researching something; he knows the sound of Castiel’s voice when he really needs Dean’s attention about five minutes ago because something seriously nasty is about to jump down his neck; he knows how Castiel’s eyebrows draw together when he’s confused over something but doesn’t want to admit it.

Dean realises after about two hours sitting in a diner, staring into space over a cup of coffee that’s long since gone cold and sour, he also knows what Castiel’s voice sounds like when he’s trying to wake Dean up first thing in the morning and knows he’s tired. And he knows how Castiel’s hands feel lifting him back onto his feet, brushing over bruises that are gone before he can really feel the pain. He also knows what Castiel’s blood feels like on his hands, how pale Cas goes when he’s been hurt and can’t heal, how awkwardly he moves when he’s hurt, how he'll curl against the pillows of even the worst motel bed and just...wait to heal. And how he'd never _ask_ Dean to stay with him or talk to him but Dean's gotten into the habit of it: if Castiel can't leave the room, then Dean sticks pretty close to it. Doesn't seem fair otherwise.

It takes another cup of coffee -- hot this time -- before he admits that also knows the look of surprised pleasure in Castiel’s eyes when Dean does something for him -- anything, it doesn’t have to be much. And abruptly Dean wishes he’d done more, more often.

* * *

The rundown house is quiet, the only sounds the creak of the boards under their feet, the occasional puff of wind outside, and the distant sounds of cars passing at the end of the long, overgrown driveway. 

Dean’s got his shotgun slung over one shoulder, and a flashlight and the EMP detector in the other, but it’s been five minutes since he’s looked at it because the damned thing hasn’t made a noise since he turned it on half an hour ago. Castiel is ahead of him at the end of the hallway and Sam is behind him a few steps. 

‘I’ve gotta figure out how to make this thing directional,’ Dean grouses, rubbing the back of his neck with the side of the hand holding the gun as Castiel disappears into the moonlit dim past the door. He gives the EMP a disgusted look and shoves it in his back pocket.

‘Hey, there’s stairs back here, Dean...’

Dean cranes back and sees Sam leaning around the edge of a door that’s only hanging on by one hinge. He jerks his chin upwards. ‘I’m gonna go check it out.’

‘Catch us up.’ 

Sam nods and disappears behind the door; Dean turns back down the hallway and sees the door open at the far end. ‘Cas?’

‘In here, Dean.’ Castiel’s voice comes back quietly. 

Dean makes his way down the hall, flashing the light from side to side. There are no more doors but enough dust and spiderwebs to keep a haunted house designer happy for eternity. He shoulders open the door and pauses. ‘Whoa.’

The high ceiling arches out of the range of the flashlight beam and he can see black spots in the floor where the planks have given up and fallen into the cellar. There are thick beams coming out of the walls above his head and it looks like they come together at some central point. There’s a tang of damp concrete welling up from whatever’s below, but it smells a little fresher in here than the rest of the house.

The walls, apart from the one with the door, are glass, floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on dimness. One of the nearest is broken at the top, letting in a steady breeze of cool air and the scent of greenness. He muffles the flashlight against his hip and, after his eyes adjust, he can make out foliage. There are branches, bushes, and flowers pressed against the windows. There’s a nearly-full moon out and he thinks that, beyond the thick wall of greenery, there’s probably grass.

‘This was beautiful.’ Castiel is standing close to the windows, his arms slightly outstretched, looking up. 

‘Uh...yeah.’ Dean clicks the flashlight off and watches Castiel. 

Cas looks up for a long minute, seeming to study the beams above him, then turns slowly, taking in the windows with the greenery pressed close beyond. He takes a step into a pale patch of moonlight that shines off the trenchcoat and picks out the bright sparks of his eyes when he turns towards Dean.

The moonlight haloes him, makes his pale skin glow, and he stretches out a hand towards Dean and looks as though he’s about to speak. Dean’s mouth is dry but he’s pretty sure that whatever Cas asks, the answer’s _Yes_.

‘Mine!’ The rasping voice screams into life just behind Dean’s left shoulder and he jerks forward, dropping the flashlight. ‘All _mine!’_

Dean tries to take a step forward, unshoulder the shotgun, and turn around, but something sinks into his jacket and keeps him where he is. 

‘He’s _not_ for you!’ The voice shrieks and it feels like cold nails pierce through the leather and into his skin.

‘He is not for you, either.’ Castiel’s voice is even but the floor isn’t and it’s taking him longer than Dean’s happy with to make it across the room.

Dean lurches forward again, trying to pull free but in the tangle of his jacket, shirt, and gun, he can’t make it. Whatever’s biting into his shoulders hurts like hell.

‘Can’t you just let me have him?’ The voice sounds strangely plaintive for a moment and whatever’s digging into his shoulders relaxes a tiny bit. Dean takes his chance and throws his weight forward, hoping to rip free of whatever it is. He loses his grip on the shotgun and it clatters away across the floor, spinning on the polished stock.

Castiel lunges across the last few feet of rotten floor and grabs Dean’s arm, yanking him bodily forward. Whatever’s in his flesh wrenches free and Dean staggers and nearly falls, then drags himself up and around, grabbing Castiel’s arm for support. 

The ghost is tall, stretching herself taller, and her hands are long and thin, with fingers like roots that twist and twine. She screams and darts forward, tangling fingers aimed at Dean’s face and Castiel catches his shoulder, pulling Dean back and behind himself. Dean loses his balance and falls, landing on his ass with a thump that drives the breath out of him and gets a worrying groan from the boards beneath him.

The ghost shrieks again and whirls on Castiel, digging her hands towards him as though the air is earth or water. Castiel stands steady and the ghost pulls herself back. For a split second of calm, half-out of breath, Dean can see her face. There’s a shadow of the woman she was and Dean thinks she must have been lovely. Then she screams again -- a noise fit to shatter the glass in the windows -- and dives towards Castiel.

‘Cas!’ Dean scrambles to his feet, but Castiel grabs his shoulder again and shoves him away, then thrusts one hand towards the ghost’s chest.

She stops as if she has run into a wall and shrieks, hands beating at the air, at Castiel’s arm.

‘Go.’ Castiel’s command is nearly lost in her final cry, and Dean is scrambling towards his shotgun and Sam’s running footsteps are just at the door when the ghost gives a squeal and vanishes.

* * *

Dean peels off his shirt in the bathroom and grimaces at what he sees: thick smears of dried blood, long scratches, and several puncture wounds just above his collarbone on both shoulders. He twists around and tries to get a look at his back. ‘Great.’

He tries to scrub the worst of the blood off his chest with his shirt, succeeds only in smearing it, and tosses the shirt towards the trash as he goes back into the bedroom. ‘Gonna need a little help here, guys.’

Sam looks up from where he’s tossing lighter fluid and matches into a duffle bag. ‘Get Cas to do it. I found her bones in the attic.’

Dean fakes a pout. ‘But that’s my favorite part.’

‘Yeah, well, you can take the next one.’ Sam zips the bag and looks over at Cas, standing by the door. ‘Can you take care of him?’

‘Of course, Sam.’ Castiel steps to one side, pushing the outer door open. ‘Be careful. I do not wish to have to rescue you as well.’

Sam claps him on his shoulder on the way out the door. ‘Just make sure he doesn’t get blood poisoning.’

The door bangs shut and Dean and Castiel are left in a quiet room. 

‘Uh...y’know...I can probably just take a shower.’ Dean scratches at some of the drying blood on his shoulder and shrugs. ‘These look worse than they are.’

Castiel studies him for a long minute, then walks across the room to him, peering at the wounds. 

Dean is sorely tempted to close his eyes but when he tries it for a quick second all he can see is Cas in the deserted, half-ruined room, moonlight pooling around him. If Cas thought the ruined room looked beautiful, it hadn’t been what Dean was looking at.

He snaps his eyes open again and finds Cas studying one of the digs on his left shoulder, a faint crease between his eyebrows. Castiel brushes a careful fingertip over the wound, pressing gently until Dean hisses in breath between his teeth.

Castiel nods, as if confirming something to himself and drops his hand. ‘Several of these are quite deep. They will need bandaging.’

‘Yeah, well...’ He can’t think of anything else to say.

‘Go shower. I will gather your supplies.’

* * *

Dean takes the quickest shower he can and doesn’t go below his waist.

It doesn’t help.

* * *

Castiel is waiting when Dean comes out, scrubbing his hands through his damp hair. Cas has taken off the trenchcoat and suit jacket -- they are neatly folded over the back of the chair just as they were the other night and Castiel has cuffed the sleeves of his shirt above his elbows and Dean _really_ wishes he hadn’t noticed any of that. There’s familiarity in that; a sense of Things As They Should Be and that’s not something he knows how to deal with. 

How had he missed how _used_ he was getting to Cas being around? How many times a day he thought of something he had to tell Castiel or point out to him or-- And how had he managed to miss the attention Cas paid to him? Just because he was quiet about it. Was that an excuse for Dean apparently failing to notice _anything_ going on around him in the past year! 

‘Look, seriously, Cas, I don’t think these are worth bothering with.’ Dean runs a hand over his shoulder and holds it out, his palm a little smeared with water and a slow trickle of blood. ‘Barely anything.’

Castiel raises an eyebrow at him. ‘Gangrene is a serious infection.’

‘Oh, for--’ Dean rolls his eyes. ‘Look, you and I both know a ghost can’t give you germs. It’ll be fine. I’ll find an old shirt, take it easy on the carrying for a few days and--’

‘You have been watching me.’

‘I...what? What?’ 

Castiel settles on the end of the bed, hands clasped lightly between his knees. ‘You have been watching me. More carefully than you usually do.’ 

‘I...uh...well...I...really?’ _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

‘You thought I had done something to you. Are you watching to see if that has happened? Because I can assure you it has not.’

Dean looks at him for a long minute. He may not be the brightest spark in the Winchester family, but he recognizes an opportunity when he sees it and this is an opportunity.

He can lie.

He can make something up and Cas will let him get away with it and he can walk away.

Castiel isn’t even looking at him which will make it that much easier. His eyes are fixed on his own hands, his dark head bent.

He can make up whatever he wants.

_Fuck this._

‘Yeah...yeah, you did, Cas.’ He nudges Castiel gently on the shoulder, then sits down beside him, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He can’t quite bring himself to look Cas in the face.

‘I did not, Dean. I promise you.’

‘I’m not stupid,’ Dean tells his hands.

‘I never--’

Dean sighs and turns to him. ‘I’m not _stupid,_ Cas. You watch me. You don’t bitch when I take over the radio for a thousand miles. You don’t try and hide the remote when we get in at night so I can’t watch junk TV for five hours straight. You listen to every damned stupid thing I say and you pretend like I make sense.’ Dean runs a hand back through his hair, digging at the base of his skull. The thoughts seem vague now he has to turn them into words but he knows he’s right. 

He shoves himself to his feet and starts to pace back and forth across the room, like Sam does when he’s trying to work something out. ‘You remember what I order in diners. You bring me coffee with the right amount of sugar. You try to figure out my jokes --’ He spins back around and jabs a finger at Castiel. ‘And I know you do, ‘cause I’ve caught you using Sam’s computer to do it! Jesus, Cas, I’m not that important -- but you pretend like I am -- what the hell do you call that except getting inside my fucking head?’

Castiel looks up at him silently, a faint flush of color over his cheekbones.

‘Yeah, see, that’s what I thought. So what I want to know is--’ Dean takes advantage of his height and weight and the fact that he’s already moving and pins Castiel to the bed before Cas can do anything. 

He straddles Cas’ thighs, feeling an unexpected soreness in his muscles from hitting the floor earlier -- but also seeing a truly priceless look of shock on Castiel’s face. Cas’ mouth is slightly open and his eyes wide, the pupils dilated. ‘What I want to know is whether you’re gonna make good on it or whether this is just part of your standard angelic bodyguarding services.’

Castiel opens his mouth -- closes it. Opens it again -- closes it again.

Dean feels a slow creeping cold sense of humiliation rising from the base of his spine. 

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d _known_ he was right about something, been absolutely cast-iron positive about it, and been so wrong people nearby had nearly killed themselves laughing. Maybe he was just lucky that there was no-one to laugh this time. 

And it _had_ to be about this.

 _Why_ couldn’t he have been right? 

He _wanted_ to be right.

‘Uh....Jesus, Cas, I...I’m sorry. Just...never mind. ‘m tired...I’m...sorry...I...’ He tries to backpedal, tries to think of some way to make this be about him being tired and out of it and really just a plain old arrogant asshole who assumes the whole world wants a piece of him and--

Castiel stares at him in silence for another endless second, then, just as Dean is about to try and make the most graceful exit he can and barricade himself in the bathroom until Sam comes back, Cas lets out a full-body groan that seems to comes up from his toes and yanks Dean down by the elbows. It isn’t comfortable -- Castiel accidentally catches one of the puncture wounds with his thumb -- but Castiel’s lips are warm and surprisingly soft and whatever else he is, he is _dedicated_ to this kiss. 

Dean tries to pull back so he can talk, but Cas keeps pulling him back down, running his tongue over Dean’s lower lip, trying to map out the angles of his chin and jaw with his mouth. ‘Cas...Cas, why didn’t you _say_ somethin’!’

‘What...what was I supposed to say?’ Castiel’s hands are fumbling at Dean’s waist, catching in the belt loops of his jeans. ‘I raised you from Hell: now fuck me?’ He snorts at himself and Dean can hear an unfamiliar bitterness in his voice. ‘You would have laughed in my face, thrown me out -- rightly so. How was I supposed to _know?’_

‘Okay, okay...’ Dean pulls himself back onto his knees and reaches down to cover Castiel’s hands with his own. Cas looks up at him with an expression that’s half-lust, half-fear, and Dean can see the second when it flips over into being more fear than lust and he tightens his hands over Castiel’s fingers. ‘Hey -- _hey._ Look, we’re gonna do this but...just maybe you could...trust me next time, okay?’ He reaches down and runs a finger along Castiel’s cheekbone, brushes the soft wing of hair back over his ear. ‘Before I...’ _Uh..._ Mentioning his recent bedroom-related difficulties didn’t seem like a totally good idea, but it was too late now. He clears his throat. ‘Before I make a complete idiot out of myself four times in a row. ‘Cause that wasn’t fun.’

Castiel winces, then swallows hard and nods. ‘I...wanted to. Very much. But I...did not want you to think yourself...obliged because of what I had done.’

‘So I’m not obliged and neither are you.’ Dean slips a hand between his own thighs and brushes the back of his hand over Castiel’s groin; he gasps convulsively and arches up between Dean’s legs. ‘And we’re both doin’ this ‘cause we want to,’ Dean says a little breathlessly, thinking he better get his jeans off fast or the zipper’s never gonna come down. ‘Right?’

Castiel blinks at him, a little unfocused for a minute, then runs the tip of his tongue over his lips and nods, turning his hand in Dean’s and weaving their fingers together.

‘Good.’ Dean leans forward, ducking his head slightly to nuzzle against Castiel’s throat, breathing in the warm, sweet scent of skin. 

* * *

Everything works fine that night.

And the next night.

And the one after that.

And the one after that.

The night after that, Castiel says that Dean is enough to wear out even an angel -- but Dean’s figured out a few tricks by then, and it doesn’t take long to change Castiel’s mind.


End file.
